


Postseason

by iniquiticity



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:48:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day is exactly the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postseason

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was going to be a "sharks win the cup" fic. That will happen eventually. 
> 
> Theoretically, this is from Couture's POV, although it could be from almost anyone's. Or any team, if you take out a few names. Second person, woo.

The days go like this: 

Wake up. Feel how much everything hurts. Look at your hand. Consider it’s likely broken. Be glad you’re usually gummed up on painkillers. Take painkillers.

Drag self into shower. Stand under hot water. Wash one-handed. Consider the possibility that there still soap in your hair. Decide it doesn’t matter. It's not hockey. It doesn't matter.

Morning skate. Be glad it's closed to the public. Think about how ramshackle everyone looks.

Watch who doesn’t skate. Watch who ‘morning skate’ means ‘lie there and have your body worked until it’s only vaguely considering not working today.’ Watch who ‘morning skate’ means ‘sit in the hot tub for hours until you’re poached like a lobster.’ Watch who ‘morning skate’ means ‘take painkillers.’

Skate. Not far, not hard, not fast. But skate.

Eat a burger and a protein shake. 

Nap. Dream about hockey. Dream about exhaustion (like a burnt-out tv where you can see the pictures in the blackness). 

Wake up. Groan at clock. 

Go to the rink. Pump with so much adrenaline you can’t see straight. Watch video while all the while itching to go onto the ice. Put on gear slowly, dropping things because you can’t concentrate. Underarmor. Pads. Socks. Skates. Tape on socks. Watch trainers flutter around like bees tending to people’s injuries. 

Get your hand wrapped. Take painkillers. Get painkillers injected into your hand. Consider your hand feels more like a tentacle right now.

Put on jersey. Stare down at the shark chomping the hockey stick. Touch the woven teal fabric. Look at your number. Try to remember how to breathe. Pump with so much adrenaline the former task becomes difficult.

Stare at your teammates and think, not for the first time, that they can do this. 

Put on helmet. Put on gloves. Pick up stick. Listen to speech by coach. Listen to speech by Jumbo, who is also (evidently) gummed up by painkillers. Watch Jumbo move stiffly because you and everyone else is pretty sure he needs hip surgery. 

Walk through corridor. 

Listen to fans. Listen to fans scream and panic and freak out. Listen to fans call all their names and the name of the team. Listen to fans want it as much as they all do. Wonder what you would do without fans. Decide it’s not worth finding out. 

Look to Ryane, who has two black eyes, a broken nose, and a split lip. Grin at him. Watch that swollen face grin back. 

Step onto the ice. Become something that is hardly as pathetic as to have miserable human aches and pains. Lose yourself in the screaming fans and the circular warm-up skate and the flash of teal and black and white. Look over at Nemo, who has the intensity of a machine in his eyes. Feel confident that Nemo will carry you. 

Skate in a circle. Listen to the PA announcer announce you. Become superhuman. 

Play hockey. Score goals. Take passes. Hit people. 

Win.


End file.
